Swayed
by hophophop
Summary: Episode tag for 2x22, "Paint it Black." When she pushed through the revolving door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, Sherlock was there. Instead of worry buried under scorn, she saw an echo of the haunted man who'd found Irene and blamed himself for what was done to her.


_"Yes, call me back and let me know you're okay."_

* * *

The caller ID read Joan Watson but he knew better than to hope. "This is Sherlock Holmes."

"Please tell me my room's not an apiary yet because I am exhausted."

He steadied himself with a shaking hand on the bannister. "Wats—" was all he managed on the first try. "Where are you? Are you all right? Tell me where, I'm coming." He fumbled with the inner door, yanking it open to bang against the wall.

"I'm... I'm not injured. I'm on my way to be questioned? Or debriefed, it's some sort of terrorism unit."

"McNally found you."

"No... Or I don't know. I didn't see him." He could hear the murmur of other voices in the background. "It's an international agency."

"Do you not know who they are, or can you not say?" He halted just outside the front door, hand still on the door knob. Panic pushed breath faster through his lungs.

"Don't be angry. It had nothing to do with your brother." It took him a moment to understand her message, and rage obliterated the panic.

"I'm going to kill him."

"Can it wait until I'm home?" She affected a peevish tone, but the pain underlying her voice cut through his desire to strangle each of Mycroft's limbs in turn and sank like a stone to his heart. His hands twitched with the impulse to grab both her arms, needing that visceral confirmation she was real, really there, alive.

"Say the name of our tortoise if you are still in danger."

"I don't want to fight, please just let it go."

"He's there with you, isn't he. I will deal with him later."

"I know."

"Ask them where they're taking you, where I can come get you and bring you home."

"That's all I want, Sherlock. That's all I want."

* * *

She trudged down eight flights of stairs, unwilling to step into the elevator with the two silent, black-garbed guards who trudged with her now, one in front and one behind. It didn't even make sense; she hadn't been held in a tiny room, hadn't even been in a room with a door. Claustrophobia was irrational, even for an irrational response. Men kept her captive, not the space. She glanced up at the man in front of her and reconsidered her irritation. She didn't trust anything she'd been told or deduced herself in the last three hours. Avoiding a confined space with armed strangers acting for interests other than her own was probably somewhat logical.

Three flights from the ground floor she saw Sherlock through the window, standing on the wide sidewalk in front of the building. His hands were stuffed into his coat pockets, elbows splayed, head angled down. She couldn't see from this position, but she knew he was scowling at the pavement.

She'd berated herself thoroughly during the initial hours she sat on that damn chair, for letting herself get caught. Gradually she remembered she was already a target before she followed the man out of the restaurant; if she hadn't walked into that trap, like an idiot, they would have tried some other way. Then Jem was shot and the exchange set up, and three more men died around her. Because of her. That refrain took over for a while. But now, about to face Sherlock, her first mistake loomed. That failure would be all he'd see. He'd been worried for her, she heard it over the phone, and that anxiety would be expressed as anger for being so careless. Toss in his frustration at not being able to get at Mycroft yet... She just needed to sleep. A hot shower and then a bed for twelve hours. No interruptions, no castigation, no tantrums. She wondered if she should go to a hotel.

When she passed the window on floor two, he'd turned to face the direction of on-coming traffic and was rubbing his face with one hand. No, wiping his eyes. He probably hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours either. Who knew what he'd figured out about Mycroft's betrayal by now.

Sherlock had stayed on the phone with her the rest of the ride to the agency offices even though neither of them spoke for the last ten minutes. Mycroft sat in the passenger seat in front of her, and she kept her face turned to the side window or closed her eyes. She hadn't said a word to him since he arrived at the meet. He'd given her a kurt nod when they got out of the car, but if he had any part in the debrief, she didn't see it. The fact that it only took three hours was probably a gift from him. She wasn't going to thank him for it.

When she pushed through the revolving door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, Sherlock was there. Instead of worry buried under scorn, she saw an echo of the haunted man who'd found Irene and blamed himself for what was done to her. He stared at her, looking her over without making eye contact.

"May I?" he asked, hands slightly raised, and as soon as she started to nod, he reached forward and grasped her shoulders, sliding down a bit to wrap each of her upper arms with his hands, squeezing gently.

"I'm all here," she said, swaying lightly. "Do I get a merit badge for this?" She gave a little smile that faltered as recollection welled up. She didn't know where she'd go from here.

"No badges, Watson," he whispered, closing his eyes, and she saw tears on his face. His swaying pulled her off balance, and she took a step toward him to stay upright. His hands shifted around to her back, and somehow they were hugging. Awkward and stiff, but warm and oddly familiar. She rested her forehead on his sternum and slipped her arms around his waist. After a moment, he moved one hand lightly over her back a few times before shifting both hands to her arms again and gently pulling away. "You'll want a bath and some rest, I expect. I've got a cab waiting."

He nudged her toward the curb, and she stumbled again moving forward. He opened the taxi door for her and she slid in while he went around and got in from the other side. He stopped just on the other side of the center line, and she pushed in next to him, bodies in contact from knee to shoulder. She felt a layer of tension release, and she let her head fall back against the seat. He gave the driver the address.

"I operated on someone today," she murmured.

"While kidnapped? Now that sounds like merit badge material."

She closed her eyes. "He died too."

She felt his sigh and wondered what had possessed her to say that. He took in another breath, and she winced, waiting for his response. Instead he let it out again, slowly. The cab rocked gently side to side as it picked up speed on the way home.


End file.
